


Some Comfort

by rhodrymavelyne



Category: Dark Shadows (1966), Dark Shadows (1991), Dark Shadows (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 09:25:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17363390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhodrymavelyne/pseuds/rhodrymavelyne
Summary: Roger Collins really doesn't like some of his father's friends, only those friends aren't what they seem.





	Some Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> This one of what I've decided to call A Tapestry of Dark Shadows, interlocked Dark Shadows stories which are my own fan interpretation, based on a mixture of the original show, the remake, and the Innovation comic. The Portrait of Jamison Collins is one of these. This story takes place in the same universe. In this particular universe, I've merged the identity of Burke Devlin with someone else. 
> 
> I don't own Dark Shadows, but I do get tangled up in its stories, trying to play with them, like a kitten with yarn. I keep trying to get my paws untangled, hence this particular fan universe. :)

Once again, that man was here. Strutting across the Collinwood drawing room as if he lived here. Fixing eyes as deep blue as that gypsy girl his father had been entirely too fond of upon the master of Collinwood. Careless, merry eyes that crinkled in the corner with a natural disregard for everything. 

Yes, he was entirely too much like, oh, what had that woman’s name been? Lenore? She, too, had taken liberties with Roger’s father, leaning close to him, whispering in his ear, just as that man did right now. 

“Hello, Roger.” He lifted his head, offering him a tiny smirk, exchanging a glance with his father. Private, unspoken things passed between the two men, to which Roger Collins was excluded. “You look like your usual cheery self.”

“Burke Devlin.” Roger uttered the name like a curse, not bothering with a sarcastic reply. He headed straight for the liquor board and poured himself a drink. Who cared if he was too young? “What brings you here this time? A seance, another one of your little games? Or do you just want to borrow money from my father? Again?”

“Roger.” Jamison Collins never raised his voice. He didn’t need to. 

Roger found himself stopping in his tracks, one hand on the decanter, the other on the glass, unable to lift either. 

“There’s time enough to drink when you’re older.” Soft, brown eyes fixed upon them from a surprisingly ageless face, a hint of fire burning in the pupils. “It’s never time, however, for discourtesy.”

The boy gritted his teeth and backed away from the bottle.

“No, it’s all right, Jamison.” Devlin raised a placating hand in his father’s direction. “I must have snuck my first drink when I was younger than Roger, only I didn't get caught.” He offered Roger an annoying wink as he spoke. “Someone must have told you that story.”

“If not that one, a similar tale. If I believed them, I’d think you were the very devil as a child, Burke.” The fire in his father’s pupil softened into a twinkle. “I’m hoping the next generation won’t pick up your habits.” Affection took any sting out of the rebuke. 

“Spoil my fun.” Devlin pouted, showing off full lips as Lenore might once have, turning his lively blue gaze upon the master of Collinwood. 

Both men burst into laughter which stung Roger’s ears. 

“You’ll excuse me, Father.” He backed away toward the door, away from the man who could get the master of Collinwood to laugh like he, Roger, never could. “Far be from me to spoil your fun.” 

It was a fun Roger Collins could never be part of. For that matter, Jamison Collins never laughed with his daughter that way either. Outsiders had a stronger hold on their father than Liz and himself did. 

Burke Devlin. Just what kind of a name was Burke Devlin? It had to be as phony as the rest of him. That man was just another shady ne’er do well, like Paul Stoddard or Jason MacGuire. More than eager to flatter the master of Collinwood, catering to his whims in a scheme to swindle Jamison Collins’s wealth away from him and his heirs. Unless Burke Devlin wanted the secret of Jamison Collins's eternal youth. His father never seemed to age, while Roger felt like he was withering rapidly, even though he was barely a teenager yet. 

He gritted his teeth and stomped in the direction of the stairs. He dug his fingers into the railing as he ascended, pausing to glower for a moment at the portrait of Barnabas Collins. 

“What are you looking at?” Roger growled. “You’re dead. You no longer have to put up with your father’s favorite parasites.” He studied the pinched expression, the repressed fire in the dark eyes. Different, yet similar to Jamison Collins. “He no longer has to put up with yours, either.”

Barnabas Collins said nothing in return. Not that Roger expected him to. He’d long outgrown the period of hearing an imaginary heartbeat coming from the canvas. His father indulged far too much in that sort of thing with his private parties, seances, and stupid occult games. Liz might be willing to put up with it, but Roger was sick of it. 

He paused to kick the step in front of him before continuing his angry tramp up to his room.

****

The man who called himself Burke Devlin walked over to the study doors and closed them.“Always a pleasure to run into your son when I visit.” He spared a glance at the departing boy, making his noisy way up the stairs. “It’s like seeing Edward as a child all over again. Hopefully not with my drinking habit.” 

“You may drive me to drink as well as Roger if you both keep this up.” Jamison sighed and rose from his seat. “I know he’s abrasive, but you could be a little nicer.”

“Well, I could be honest with him.” Burke leaned against the mantlepiece. “Tell Roger that I’m actually your wandering, disipated uncle who never ages…like you.”

“Ha ha.” Jamison walked over to the liquour board and poured himself a glass. “Next you’ll be suggesting I tell Liz and Roger about my mother. Or perhaps Barnabas locked and waiting for release in the mausoleum.”

“You know I can’t do that. Barnabas made it quite clear to keep quiet and leave him alone, until the right person comes to him.” The light in Burke’s blue eyes dimmed into a longing which never went away. “No matter how much I may want to release him myself.”

“Quentin.” Jamison uttered Burke’s true name, reaching out to touch the other man who was much older than him. 

Not that anyone would notice. His lively, fun loving uncle only had one portrait, betraying his identity, only it had been marked by time, marked in a way Quentin Collins had not. Quentin, a.k.a. Burke Devlin appeared no older than Jamison himself, whom only had a few lines around the mouth.

Quentin’s hair was still brown, Jamison’s was still auburn. No gray hairs peppered their heads, nor did it thin at the temples. Edward, Jamison’s father had lost most of his own hoary locks when Jamison and Nora were still children. 

“I’m sorry.” Jamison pressed his fingers on the other man’s. “At least you’ll see Barnabas again. I’m not sure if I will.”

Quentin tightened his grip on his nephew. “You might want to consider telling Roger and Liz about your mother. They’re both wondering why you look so young.”

“No.” Jamison released Quentin’s hand. “Liz only puts up with any suggestion of the occult while Roger detests it. Let them think I allowed some mad doctor to give me a miracle, anti-aging tonic. They’ll find that easier to swallow.”

Quentin raised an eyebrow at this. 

Jamison looked away from that direct blue gaze. Yes, keeping secrets from his own children was hard, but this was for their sake. He wanted to keep them as far from the shadow of the phoenix as he could. 

This didn’t mean that shadow might not fall over them in the form of his mother, Nora, or the powers help them, Ra himself. 

Nora had already given into their mother’s heritage. She’d never stopped hearing Laura’s call. Eventually, she’d cast herself into the flames, hoping to find their mother and the place she’d always wanted to take her children to. 

Whether or not Nora had succeeded was unknown. All that was left of his sister was a pile of ash. 

Jamison swore after it happened that Liz and Roger would never meet the same fate. This was the purpose behind all the little games he played, sometimes with individuals of dubious character. 

Jamison Collins needed friends and allies to prepare for when someone came for his children or his children’s children. 

“You’re not alone.” Quentin walked over to him. “Remember that. When the time comes, I’ll be here for you. Barnabas, too.”

Quentin laid a hand on the shoulder of the person who still meant more anyone, except maybe his own children and descendants. Certainly more than any of the casual flings he’d had over the centuries. 

This man was the boy he’d been able to love like no one else, who soothed his edgy malice. 

Home to Quentin Collins would always be Jamison. 

Jamison smiled back at him and lifted a hand to press against his fingers. Quentin meant every word, even if they were lies. 

Barnabas wouldn’t be released until after he, Jamison was dead. His vampire cousin would be here, though, for Elizabeth, Roger, and their children. As would Quentin.

That was of some comfort.


End file.
